The Hippocampus and the Menagerie

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At the center of my memory is the image of a horse, a horse the color of orange cream, rearing up, and glancing at me, with an oceanic glint in her eye.  She has wings.  She has fins.  She is fast.  I remember.  She was fast.  Slicing through the water like a ray of sunlight.

So I don’t know how it could have happened.  But I have to do something.

I must free the hippocampus. Continue reading

Seven Signs of Impossible Times

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When pigs fly

“Obviously, it’s a hoax,” Rita said, switching out the microphone cover for that furry one that she used when they went somewhere windy.  “But can you imagine if it were real?  I mean what would it mean?”

Quentin sighed.  “It would mean that Nature herself is against my ever getting a real shot at doing real journalism.”

“So, pigs can fly and somehow that’s all about you, huh?” Continue reading